


Statten Park

by eyra



Series: Freedom & Whisky [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Anal Sex, Aristocrat Sirius, Bottom Remus, Champagne, Enemies to Lovers, Humor, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Modern Era, Oral Sex, Romance, Rough Sex, Slash, Summer, Top Sirius
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23610733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyra/pseuds/eyra
Summary: He's absolutely maddening. It happens every summer, this stupid, weird flirting that Remus has never quite managed to get to the bottom of. Either it's a complete wind-up and Sirius is even more of an entitled bully than Remus has always thought, or it's going to end with Remus letting Sirius bend him over the storage crates behind the catering tent one year. It's one or the other.The boys spend a glorious long weekend together at Sirius's family estate in the height of summer.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Freedom & Whisky [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719376
Comments: 48
Kudos: 431





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Stately home porn is my brand now.

"I hope one of those is for me."

Remus groans, closing his eyes for a moment before pouring out the rest of the champagne into the waiting crystal flutes. He knows that voice. That _bloody_ voice. It's the reason he simultaneously dreads these events and struggles to sleep in the lead up to them, so lively are the butterflies in his stomach at the thought of seeing _him_ again. It's usually just once a year; there's the occasional winter fundraiser or spring gala that McGonagall's Outside Catering gets booked for by the Black family, but it's the mid-summer luncheon at Statten Park that they draft in the whole team for and that means Remus, every summer, for the past eight years. And every summer for the past eight years Sirius Black has harangued him and pestered him and followed him around for the whole bloody day and generally made his job much, much harder than it ever needs to be, and Remus hates him for it.

"Sirius," he smiles tightly, passing one of the flutes to the other man who looks, as ever, sickeningly perfect. His dark hair is longer than it was last summer, and there's a strand falling prettily over one grey eye. Sirius's full lips are stretched into a grin as he takes Remus in.

"Remus," he tips his champagne towards him appreciatively. "You look radiant, as always."

"Do I," Remus deadpans, starting to set the remaining glasses onto his silver tray. There's always a toast to the Queen or the state or something odious at the start of the luncheon, and outside the catering tent, across the lawns of the great country manor, Remus can see the well-heeled guests gathering around the white tables, ready to listen to the Black patriarch's annual address. The whole thing is gross.

"You've caught the sun a little," Sirius says, motioning to the bridge of freckles across Remus's nose that are there every summer, so Remus knows he's teasing. "Have you been away?"

"Oh yeah," Remus nods, focusing on the last few champagne flutes. "Yeah, there was Bali, then Dubai, then I wintered in the Seychelles as always."

Sirius laughs. It would be cruel, Remus thinks, if Sirius knew the extent of Remus's exaggerations; that is to say, that Remus has never even been out of the country, and the only sun he gets outside of work is when he sits at the dusty window of his rented room in his flatshare in Whitechapel. But Sirius doesn't know that, because Sirius is an idiot who exists in a world where wintering in the Seychelles is, if anything, probably a little passé, and doesn't understand that most people inhabit very different, much duller worlds than he.

Remus sighs when he turns with the tray of drinks and finds Sirius blocking the pathway out to the lawn, still grinning as he swigs from his own glass.

"Move."

He's absolutely maddening. It happens every summer, this stupid, weird _flirting_ that Remus has never quite managed to get to the bottom of. Either it's a complete wind-up and Sirius is even more of an entitled bully than Remus has always thought, or it's going to end with Remus letting Sirius bend him over the storage crates behind the catering tent one year. It's one or the other, and Remus would be lying if he said he didn't spend several nights, every summer, pulling himself off under his sheets as he imagines that this might be the year that their ridiculous dance reaches its climax.

Sirius moves aside for him with a mock bow, ostentatiously waving him out of the tent, and Remus takes a deep breath to steady himself because the last thing he needs is Sirius winding him up to the point where he throws a drink at him or something. He’s come close before.

“Don’t go too far,” he hears Sirius call after him as he heads down the lawn. “I want to talk to you about something.”

Remus ignores him, and mercifully doesn't see him again for the next couple of hours. It's the usual affair; Lords and Ladies standing around on the lawns in their finest, congratulating one another on being Lords and Ladies. Remus serves them truffles and crab and something gelatinous on blinis that Minerva snaps at Pete to stop poking at when she brings it out of the refrigerated van, then the guests wander off down the estate for a round of croquet or laughing at poor people or whatever it is they do, and Remus begins the clear up operation. He's just making a start on the head table when Sirius appears again, and declares with no preamble whatsoever:

"You should stay for a few days."

Remus blinks at him, halfway to picking up an empty serving dish.

"What?"

"Stay for a few days," Sirius shrugs, a smile that Remus can't quite interpret pulling at his lips. "The grown ups are all heading back up to London tonight. Jamie and I are staying for the long weekend. You should stay too."

Remus watches him. He doesn't trust him. He's never trusted him; not since that first summer when Sirius stole a platter of strawberries and a magnum of Dom straight out of the catering tent with James Potter and all the servers got docked an hour's pay because there wasn't enough champagne for one of the toasts.

"Unless you have somewhere better to be," Sirius grins.

There's something about the way he says "better" that makes Remus's blood boil, as if he knows that after this Remus will be getting back on the coach without air-conditioning for the three hour drive back to Paddington, and then on to his single room in his flatshare in Whitechapel to wait out the bank holiday by himself. It feels like he's taunting him, and maybe he is but Remus's self-worth doesn't stretch as far as turning down a free weekend in such enviable surroundings with, he assumes, a few square meals a day and the promise of the long awaited resolution to whatever _this_ is between him and Sirius Black. Arrogant, cruel, beautiful Sirius Black.

So he shrugs, and picks up the serving dish, and says "Sure, if Pete can stay too."

Sirius rolls his eyes.

"Why?" he whines, casting himself onto the wicker chair at the end of the table. "He's so..." he waves a hand airily, his expression pained with a distaste he doesn't even try to mask.

"So?" Remus prompts, piling empty plates onto the platter he's holding. It's hardly silver service, but Minerva's occupied elsewhere for now, and Sirius, perhaps surprisingly, has never seemed to actually care about that sort of thing.

"Oh, you know," Sirius sighs, stretching languidly back in the chair, tilting it onto its back legs as he brushes an imperceptible blade of grass from his chinos. "So... shit."

"Charming."

"Well he is rather, isn't he?" Sirius says exasperatedly, pushing an empty bowl towards Remus to save him stretching across the table. "I mean, what exactly is the point of him? Does anybody actually like that boy?"

"I like him," Remus deadpans. "I reckon his parents think he's alright. His girlfriend seems to rate him."

"Girlfriend?!" Sirius splutters, lurching forwards and bringing the chair's front legs back down to earth with a thud. "You simply _must_ be joking."

Remus shrugs.

"No," he says, gathering his stack of crockery into his arms without looking at Sirius. "They've been together a few years now. She's nice."

He hooks the last remaining pair of tongs onto his little finger then sets off back towards the catering tent, and it's a few steps before he realises he's still got Sirius in tow. He'd like to think he looks suitably chastised, but Remus doesn't believe Sirius _does_ chastised, so perhaps he's just sulking.

"Fine," Sirius pouts as they reach the tent, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning nonchalantly against a guy rope, which should look precarious and awkward but it's Sirius, so it doesn't. "He can stay too."

He sounds like a toddler, and Remus has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from grinning. What a ridiculous person Sirius Black is.

"Fine. Then I'll stay."

***

It's gone six by the time the coach leaves with the rest of the catering staff on board, Remus having convinced Minerva that he and Pete were actually going to walk into the village and catch a bus to stay with Peter's grandmother, who lived nearby. In fairness, it wasn't a complete fabrication; Pete _did_ have a grandmother who lived about an hour from the estate, but Minerva didn't need to know that said grandmother has been dead since the late nineties. Pete, for his part, seemed only too happy to stay behind; Mary's visiting her parents for the weekend, he said, and he certainly wouldn't mind living like an aristocrat for a few days.

The party-goers themselves have long since slid away in their Range Rovers and their chauffeured Bentleys, and at around seven-thirty Remus hears a whistle from the garden; the agreed signal that Remus and Pete are allowed to come out from the pinewoods, because Sirius's parents have left for the city and Remus thinks that his self-esteem or his dignity or _something_ should be dented with the knowledge that he's being hidden away effectively below stairs; something shameful that Sirius doesn't want his betters to see, but really if Remus was partial to such flights of pride then he probably wouldn't be working in five-star catering, wearing worn-out shoes and earning minimum wage serving fancy prawns to the literal aristocracy.

"Ahoy there!" cries James Potter, waving from the top of the lawn when he sees Remus and Pete emerge into the evening sun, and Remus finds him to be a ridiculous person, too. What a ridiculous thing to say. He smiles, tightly, though, as they amble up the garden, and then Sirius is coming out onto the patio and pushing a flute of something bubbly into Remus's hands and Christ, the wanker looks radiant at golden hour. Remus absolutely hates him. He's rolled his shirtsleeves up now the guests have left, and loosened another button at his collar so the white Oxford fans open just enough to reveal a handsome triangle of tanned skin, and he's so close that Remus can see every fine hair on his chest, gilded by the low evening sun. Sirius catches him looking, and smirks, so Remus downs his drink in one.

They end up sprawled on a perfectly mowed bank to the west of the house, the air still heavy and hot despite the hour, and James is playing Billie Holiday through his phone which is so at odds with what Remus thought he knew of James Potter that it almost makes him angry. It's like some part of him feels obliged to hate every choice Sirius or James make and when they do something that doesn't bother him, or something he even quite likes, like playing Billie Holiday or bringing out a third bottle of champagne or stretching back out on the lawn and letting their shirts ride up just a little, Remus hates them all the more. But then maybe that's just the alcohol, and it makes sense to his fuzzy mind to down another glass and chase it with a strawberry from a great bowl that's appeared from somewhere.

"So, Remus," drawls James, helping himself to the fruit and squinting out across the lawns at the setting sun. "What's your story?"

What a question. Remus blinks at him slowly, nibbling at his strawberry, and feels all the warmer for knowing that Sirius is watching every bite.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean where did you come from? What do you like? When are you going to let Sirius fuck you?"

The violent explosion of champagne that bursts from Peter's mouth catches prettily in the late evening sun and for a second, Remus sees an honest-to-god rainbow. James is howling with laughter, and Remus is sure he should feel outraged or embarrassed or _something_ , but when he chances a glance at Sirius and sees him still chewing calmly on a strawberry as Pete continues to splutter and James is taken over by glee and clearly _so_ impressed with himself, he just... doesn't. But again, it's probably the alcohol.

He shakes his head a little, a small smile pulling at his lips as James pours him another glass, and the conversation moves on. Or at least, he thinks it does. He isn't really listening.

The sun slips below the manicured horizon a little after nine, and Remus is wearing a baggy cricket jumper he doesn't remember being given when the four of them amble back into the house, following James down a long corridor to a room stuffed with wingback armchairs and tapestried pouffes and a heaving drinks cabinet from which Sirius pulls a bottle of rich amber liquid and pours a crystal cut glass' worth. James is fiddling with an old record player in the corner, and Pete collapses onto a blue rococo sofa by the empty fireplace, his lids visibly drooping.

"You'll like this."

Sirius's voice is velvet when he sinks onto the Chesterfield beside Remus and pushes the glass of amber liquid into Remus's hands.

"What is it?" he murmurs, feeling warm and sleepy and safe with Sirius pressed up against his side. He smells like sunlight.

"Just try it."

Remus takes a sip, and the liquid burns pleasantly across his tongue and down the back of his throat. It's thick and syrupy; nectar that tastes like almonds, and Remus adores the way Sirius is watching him.

"Mmm," he smiles, and Sirius smiles back, and Remus thinks they stay like that, or something like it, until the grandfather clock out on the gallery strikes two and James corrals them all off to bed, four rooms on the second floor of the east wing and Remus knows he'll never find his way out of this house alone. His bed has a thick feather mattress and an embroidered counterpane, and Remus can still feel the warm press of Sirius’s thigh against his on the sofa downstairs. Liquor always did make him horny, anyway, so he doesn't stop himself rutting lazily against the fluffy pillow his addled mind and clumsy hands stuff beneath the sheets. He doesn't stop himself when a slice of moonlight from the hallway cuts across him as the door to his room is pushed open, just enough, and he knows, somewhere, what's happening, but still he carries on. The door closes when at length he's satisfied, the room once again in darkness, and he lets himself be pulled into a deep, welcome sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - comments always welcome! x


	2. Chapter 2

Remus wakes earlier that he expected, given last night's indulgences, and with a clearer head than he deserves. Alarmingly, he remembers almost all of the previous evening, and more alarmingly still, can't bring himself to blush when he recalls the bedroom door creaking open as he rutted wantonly against the sheets. If Sirius isn't going to do that sort of thing, and if they're not _actually_ going to fuck at some point, then what's all this been about, anyway? He's under no illusion that this is the start of some great and terrible friendship between the four of them; it is what it is, and that - whether consciously or not - is what Remus has been hoping for since long before he agreed with Sirius's bizarre proposal to stay for the weekend. So there's no sense blushing about it now.

Yawning, he clambers out of the bed, which he sees now is a towering four-poster, all dressed in arsenic green drapery and golden tassels. There's a tapestry rug warming the dark oak flooring, and when Remus peers out of the leaded windows he sees an honest-to-god herd of deer picking their way across the grounds in the morning mist. What a place.

"Remus, old chap!" James greets him when he finally finds his way to what he assumes he's supposed to call a breakfast room. "Sleep well?"

A hot mug of coffee is pushed into his hands, and James beckons him to the table, laden with eggs and bacon and mushrooms and what look like kippers, tiny silver pots of jams alongside freshly-baked bread, and Remus cringes inwardly at the thought of an army of downstairs staff rising at the crack of dawn to prepare such an indulgent breakfast for the four of them. Sirius is sitting across from him, flicking through a newspaper, but glances up with a knowing grin when Remus stifles another yawn. Remus might blush, then.

"So, once Pete's up, we thought we'd start with some shooting," James muses, sinking into the chair next to Remus and reaching for the fried tomatoes. "And then perhaps a spot of afternoon tea. And then of course it's the hunt, later, so we'll have to get you suited up for that. Gosh, Sirius, won't your boy look dashing in red?"

Remus blinks at him, silently; he isn't awake enough for this. Sirius is smiling behind his paper.

"I'm joking, Remus," James says, as if speaking to a child. He shovels a forkful of tomatoes into his mouth. "We'll probably just get pissed and eat a lot. And then if you two little bunnies want to go frolic in the woods together, Uncle Jamie will absolutely support that."

"James, stop being a prat," Sirius sighs, not looking up.

"Ignore him," James says congenially to Remus, helping himself to another serving of kippers. "Food is very much his love language. He wouldn't have made all this if he wasn't try to woo you, darling."

Remus frowns at the fare in front of him. So, not the downstairs staff at all. The thought both consoles and excites him.

"You made all this?"

"Enjoy," shrugs Sirius, throwing Remus an easy smile and taking a sip of his coffee. He's looking glorious as ever, Remus notes, with his hair tucked rakishly behind his ears and a loose blue linen shirt rolled up on his forearms, and it occurs to Remus then that this is the first time he's seen Sirius in casual dress. It is, if anything, even more appealing than the formalwear, and Remus feels suddenly out of place in his slightly wrinkled white serving shirt and work trousers.

As if on cue, James clocks him, and twenty minutes later Remus emerges from his room decked head to toe in clothes that don't belong to him; a linen shirt, with a cream pullover should he get cold, and the first pair of chinos Remus has ever worn. They're about two inches too short. He feels ridiculous.

"You look ridiculous," says Sirius when he comes back into the breakfast room.

"Look, he's a tall boy, Sirius" sighs James, sounding slightly aggrieved. "This is the best I could do."

Pete proves even more of a challenge and has to remain in his black work trousers, but Sirius manages to dig an old polo shirt out of the back of a wardrobe in a dusty bedroom off the gallery, and it only looks a little too tight when Peter pulls it on.

By the time breakfast has been cleared away, the sun has burned off the mist outside and the house already feels stifling. They amble outdoors around eleven, and follow a path up through the estate flanked by twin rows of tall pines; even the grass up here is perfectly manicured, and Remus is a few steps ahead of the group when he realises, with alarm, that he's actually enjoying himself. He's always lived on a wing and a prayer so finding himself in a situation he couldn't have predicted twenty-four hours earlier isn't so unsettling for him, but the newness of it all _is_ exciting, and he feels a pleasant kind of jittery when he thinks of later, when no doubt copious amounts of champagne have once again been imbibed and maybe Remus will sit just a little closer to Sirius on the lawn and let him take over. It's mad, really, but it's that nice sort of mad that only happens in the height of summer, and far be it from Remus to question something so innate.

He glances over his shoulder to look back at the others, and frowns when he finds a grinning Sirius holding his phone up to take a photo. There's a click, and Remus can't imagine what on earth Sirius plans to do with that picture, but then they're both distracted by Pete shrieking about a wasp and James ends up doubled-over and wiping tears of laughter from behind his glasses when Pete has to remove his shirt entirely to avoid being stung.

There's some sort of folk festival going on in the town when they arrive in the packed market square around noon, and Sirius buys a purple wildflower from a girl in a white dress and tucks it behind Remus's ear, and Remus doesn't know what to say about that, so he doesn't say anything.

"God, I need a drink," mutters Pete, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and hitching his work trousers up around his waist. Remus feels a little sorry for him then, and James must sense his discomfort too, because soon they're being corralled into a pub that's dark and cool and much quieter than the busy streets outside, and James is situating them all around a scrubbed wooden table before he disappears off to the bar to order refreshments.

"So how _did_ you sleep?" Sirius says softly, a smile on his face as he leans back into the pew bench and trails one finger lightly back and forth along the nape of Remus's neck. The _boldness_ of it all is such a violent turn on for Remus that he momentarily has to distract himself by watching Pete pick his nose as he pores over the menu.

"Fine," he says at length, turning to Sirius and smiling sweetly, as if they're not both entirely aware of what Remus was doing before he fell into said sleep. "You?"

"Never better."

"That's good."

"Hmm," muses Sirius, his hand stilling to rest fully on the back of Remus's neck, and Remus fancies there's something almost possessive in that, something authoritarian, and he has to bite down on his bottom lip as he feels his breath come a little quicker.

Sirius pouts.

"Bit lonely though."

"Were you?" Remus asks, that hand still weighing heavy on the back of his neck. "Perhaps we should address that tonight."

His heart jumps at his own brazenness, and he feels Sirius fingers twitch reflexively, but then James is back from the bar expertly carrying four glasses of something dark and fruity, and Sirius takes his hand back. Remus feels lost, somehow, for a moment, but relaxes when Sirius shuffles up the bench a little to make room for James and their legs press together lightly under the table.

They put away what must be gallons of the fruity punch, and the girl behind the bar brings over great platters of sandwiches and pork pies and scones which the four of them work through alarmingly quickly until they're sated and full. The festivities outside are still underway when they spill back out onto the sun-beaten pavement, and the walk back to the house is much slower and sillier than their walk this morning. It's boiling hot; Remus wishes he had shorts with him, and it only seems to get hotter when they're back on the estate and they're collapsing onto an expansive lawn next to a gravel courtyard and a huge, bubbling fountain.

"Right," James says, clapping his hands together. "What's everyone drinking?"

They end up on the champagne again, and Remus has the foresight to ask Sirius if he has any sun cream in the house because they've got maybe half an hour before Pete falls asleep on the grass. A bottle of lotion is produced from somewhere, and Peter diligently covers his whole face in the stuff.

"I wish I knew more about you," Sirius sighs, breaking the peaceful silence once Pete has dozed off and James has taken himself away into the shadow of a beech tree on the other side of the fountain with a book and a punnet of strawberries. Remus can see him now, stretched out in his chinos and Oxford on the manicured lawn, looking every bit the Evelyn Waugh character.

"You could always just ask," Remus drawls, turning back to Sirius, squinting into the hot afternoon sun. "You've never asked me anything besides what time the canapes are coming out."

Sirius tuts, and throws himself onto his back besides Remus.

"Not true," he grumbles, picking up a blade of grass and splitting it slowly down the middle using his thumbnail. "I ask you plenty."

"Yeah, no, you're right," nods Remus. "You once asked me if Pete was mentally deficient when he dropped that plate of salmon."

"I thought it a valid question at the time."

"It was rude."

"Alright, fine," sighs Sirius dramatically, sounding not an inch chastised. "It was rude. I'm so sorry, Peter."

He sits up, angles himself towards where Pete is sleeping off on the other side of the lawn, and bellows another apology in his direction.

"Happy?"

Remus smiles, closing his eyes. The hot afternoon rays on his face are a tonic, and he can't even bring himself to judge Sirius as he usually would.

"Ecstatic. What did you want to know?"

"Well," begins Sirius, settling back down next to Remus in the grass. "Let's start with the basics; birthplace, education, sexual history, if you please."

"The fact that 'education' is second on your list says so, so much about you, Sirius."

"I'm simply a product of my environment, Remus. Hateful, isn't it?"

They lay next to each other in silence for a moment, listening to the gentle trickling of the fountain. There's a lark singing prettily up in the eaves somewhere.

"Bradford," Remus says. "GCSEs. Rich and varied."

Sirius sits up and grins down at him.

"Now, that's what we like to hear."

They banter back and forth for a while, Remus telling Sirius about his entirely uneventful adolescence and sharing stark details about his current living situation - he doesn't need the pity _or_ the judgement, of which Sirius was bound to offer one or the other - and Sirius, in turn, sharing stories of his and James's escapades at Oxford; the time they flooded their tutor's study, and a prank involving live chickens and the Senior Common Room, and how Sirius had been brought home and locked in his room by his parents for a whole fortnight as punishment. Remus doesn't find that part of the story so funny, but Sirius laughs it off. A masochistic part of Remus wants to press for more, to find out if that's the sort of thing Sirius's parents did often when he was growing up, but then Sirius is pushing himself up and pulling off his shirt and all sense leaves Remus as he watches him jog across the gravel, kicking his shoes and trousers off until he's in nothing but his underwear, and climb confidently into the fountain with the air of someone who has done exactly this many times before.

James has joined him by the time Remus ambles over, the two of them whooping with laughter as James sheds his own clothes and plonks himself down under one of the cascades, the water soaking his hair and making him cough.

"Come on," he laughs, coaxing Remus nearer. Remus wonders how much he can actually see without his glasses. "Get your kit off, darling."

"No thank you."

He's not quick enough to dodge the airborne tidal wave of water that Sirius somehow propels his way, and it hits him square in the chest, soaking the borrowed shirt. It's not unpleasant, and he's wet now anyway, so he resignedly toes his shoes off and undresses, forcing himself not to think about the way Sirius is definitely watching him as he does.

The water really is bliss when he sinks into it; it's deep enough to come halfway up his chest when he sits, and the three of them relax back against the stone, passing round the champagne that James had thought to bring over, swigging straight from the bottle. Remus looks up at the towering statue in the centre of the structure; he thinks it's supposed to be Eros, with his quiver of arrows slung across his stone back, and he almost laughs at how fitting that seems today.

Late afternoon finds them drying out on a lawn behind the greenhouses, and somehow - between another bottle of champagne and nobody having put their shirts back on - Remus ends up laid out with his head in Sirius's lap, listening to the others chat as he gazes up at the house and watches the way the sun catches on the panes of glass in the leaded windows that he now knows line the hallway in the east wing. There's a hand in his hair, fingers brushing softly through his curls, and Remus can feel Sirius against his cheek through the shorts he's pulled on when he turns his head to look up at him. He blinks up against the sun, trying to pick out the features on Sirius's face; Remus wants to run his finger along Sirius's bottom lip, and after a while, he does, and Sirius doesn't miss a beat before sucking the finger into his mouth and running his tongue slowly along the underside of Remus's knuckle.

They've all sobered up a little by dinnertime, and Sirius disappears off into the kitchen for an hour whilst Remus showers and Pete and James have a rousing game of table tennis in a games room under the parlour. They eat in the breakfast room again, Sirius bringing through great dishes and platters of rich food; there's a bubbling pot of chicken in a white wine sauce, plates of asparagus and fennel and hunks of warm, homemade bread that they dip into the sauce and tear at with their teeth. James pours them all a glass of something dry and crisp, then there's a blackberry pie that Sirius must've made this morning before the rest of them woke, lashings of vanilla ice cream and a decanter of the sweet, almond liqueur from last night.

Remus can barely move by the time it's over, and they stay round the table for hours playing cards and bickering and listening to strange folk music that Sirius puts on the turntable out in the hall. He's lost all sense of time when Sirius stands and pulls him to his feet, and they stumble off down the corridor and up a back staircase and finally into Sirius's room, one or the other of them kicking the heavy oak door shut behind them, and then Sirius is crowding Remus against the panelled wall and pressing their lips together eagerly, his hands cradling Remus's face as he kisses him. Remus moans, already half-hard, and lets himself be pulled towards the four-poster in the middle of the vast room. His legs hit the rich red counterpane and they tumble back onto the bed together, Sirius still mouthing at him fervently, his own hardness evident through his chinos which he kicks off after fumbling awkwardly with the buttons. Remus tugs his own trousers down his thighs, Sirius pulling them off the rest of the way, and then Remus is turning himself over on the mattress and waiting for Sirius to make a start.

It doesn't come. Instead of probing fingers, there's a warm hand on his hip, and Sirius's soft voice.

"No," he whispers, coaxing Remus over onto his back again and smiling down at him in the darkness. "Like this."

Remus frowns, and Sirius hesitates, looking suddenly unsure.

"Are you alright?"

He nods, breathless, and Sirius grins at him, and carries on. He's absolutely fine. It's just... not what he expected. The dynamic between the two of them is, on the surface at least, painfully obvious; Remus is the servant and Sirius is, by title, the master, and it's an ugly and shameful thing but Remus had fully expected Sirius to play on the dichotomy. He thought that's what all this was about, and he should probably hate himself for accepting the invitation regardless but maybe that's a _thing_ for Remus; maybe that's always been a thing. Maybe there's something buried deep in the core of Remus that's always chased the incomparable feeling of being dominated by a real or imagined superior and maybe that's why he's here. He doesn't know when that part of him was forged, so he doesn't know if the past eight years spent dancing around Sirius and his title and his trappings are cause or consequence but in any case, _this_ isn't that. This is Sirius handling Remus as if he's made of glass, and kissing him deeply, and smiling when he runs a gentle hand between Remus's legs and makes his breath catch in his throat.

They don't fuck. What Remus had expected would be something quick and dirty that would leave him sore and aching the next day becomes something slow and lovely and it's not really how Remus does this, usually. Usually it is quick and dirty, in a pub toilet, or _maybe_ someone's flat if he thinks he can trust them but he'd never stay the night, or particularly enjoy it beyond the obvious physical satisfaction, and he'd never laugh when a teasing hand ran down his side and brushed a ticklish spot. This is actually _fun_ , and sort of sweet, in a way, and when Sirius goes down on him he lets Remus come down his throat, moaning hungrily around him. Remus tastes himself on Sirius's tongue, and then he's pushing him bodily back against the pillows and taking him in his own mouth and sucking at him as if this is all that matters in the world because _fuck_ , he kind of adores him right now.

Sirius tugs at Remus's hair a moment later, and Remus pulls off and lets Sirius paint his lips and his cheeks and his tongue in his waiting, open mouth.

"Fuck," pants Sirius, holding Remus there and looking down at him with something like veneration. " _Fuck_."

Remus doesn't move. It's pure instinct to stay like this for Sirius, and there it is; _that's_ the dichotomy, but it's Remus choosing it so fuck anyone who has anything to say about it. Fuck anyone who doesn't think that Remus should stay like this on his knees in the darkness, holding still under Sirius’s hand, mouth open and tongue dripping with Sirius's completion. This, Remus muses absently, is exactly where he was always meant to be.

"Come here," Sirius whispers, and he pulls him up the bed to gaze in awe at him, hands reverently brushing Remus's damp hair away from his forehead. "Are you alright?"

Remus nods and then, mortifyingly, feels his throat tighten a little. His eyes feel hot. And nothing's wrong; nothing at all is wrong. This whole thing was just so bloody perfect and so surprising and so fantastically satisfying that it's as if Remus's mind doesn't quite know how to process it, and in the absence of any sort of rational government his body now betrays him entirely and he has to gulp down the lump in his throat and blink rapidly, hoping the darkness will do him some favours here.

Sirius seems to buy it, or at least he doesn't push it. But he does kiss Remus sweetly on the mouth, and the safety of it all brings Remus back to himself for a moment. Emboldened, he pushes his tongue past Sirius's lips, and they share the taste of themselves slowly, lewdly. Sirius is running his thumb back and forth through the mess across Remus's cheek, rubbing himself into his skin, and it should feel uncomfortable and cheap and silly but it's just _everything_ right now, and Remus moans softly in encouragement.

"This alright?" Sirius murmurs against his lips, and Remus nods again, and they stay like that for what could be days, weeks; Remus thinks he might always be in this moment, somewhere, half-naked and sated with Sirius Black rubbing his come into Remus's skin and whispering to him in the darkness.

They end up in a shower in an olive-painted bathroom down the hall from Sirius's room, and Sirius takes a warm flannel and gently cleans Remus off, which leads to Remus sucking Sirius's thumb into his mouth under the hot spray, which, in turn, leads to Sirius pressing him against the wall as they pull each other off urgently, the sound of them together echoing off the tiles. Remus tries to go back to his own room after that, and Sirius tells him to stop being an idiot and tugs him back to the rumpled four-poster and curls himself around him, both of them naked and damp under the heavy sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading - comments and kudos are always appreciated! x


	3. Chapter 3

The next day dawns scorching and bright, and Remus feels sticky with heat before he's even opened his eyes. There's a soft noise from over his shoulder, and he startles for a moment before realising he's still in Sirius's bed and, perhaps more curiously, Sirius is still here too. Back in the Before Times, when Remus had thought a shag with Sirius would be a quick clandestine fuck in a pantry without so much as a kiss goodbye, Remus would have been all kinds of alarmed to find a softly rumpled Sirius Black snoozing peacefully on the pillow next to him. Something about it really shouldn't add up, and yet as Remus watches him and - daringly - reaches over to brush a stray strand of hair from his face, it feels shockingly normal to be here with him.

They share a soft kiss when Sirius wakes, and wander downstairs an hour or so later to find the others sipping tea together in the kitchen. They forego the breakfast room today in favour of a great gingham blanket spread across the small lawn off the orangery, Sirius bringing out a tray of pastries and jams and fruits; fuzzy, ripe peaches bursting with sweet juice that trickles down Remus's chin when he bites into the one that Sirius holds out for him.

There's a decision made around eleven that it's far too hot to do much of anything today, and Sirius cracks a window off the parlour so they can hear the turntable from their spot on the lawn. Peter takes another nap, and the others chat lightly about the week ahead; a series of City events for Remus, nothing much for James (and Remus still isn't sure what James actually _does_ , if anything), and how Sirius is heading out to Paris for a fortnight on Wednesday for some sort of conference that he's clearly not interested in attending.

"It's just some nonsense my father's sending me to," he says, pouring Remus a fresh glass of Pimm's from the flagon James has just brought back from the kitchen. "He's desperate for me to do my law conversion."

"But you don't want to do that?" Remus asks, chewing on a bit of cucumber. He'd always assumed that Sirius spent his days outside the annual luncheon lounging around the various Black family estates, going shooting on occasion or perhaps penning a memoir like the self-indulgent ponce he is. But it turns out Sirius does actually _do_ things; he's a patron of various charities, for one, which seems to involve a lot of photo opportunities and ribbon cutting, but he also tutors in his free time - History and French, to a girl who Remus thinks is some sort of cousin - and, to Remus's disbelief, spent most of the spring up at an estate in Scotland helping the groundskeepers redevelop a series of cottages. Remus isn't sure which is the most appealing portrait; Sirius the tutor, with his books and his gentle encouragements, or Sirius the groundsman, with - Remus fancies - his work boots and his bare, gleaming chest, and a Mellors-like gruffness that Remus wouldn't mind being on the receiving of.

"Not particularly," Sirius sighs, and James claps him on the back with something like sympathy on his face.

The afternoon passes in much the same way it did the day before, with drinks and japes and the occasional snooze beneath a blossom tree. At one point around three James wanders back inside to make them some sandwiches and Pete shuffles off saying something about ringing Mary, and Sirius takes the opportunity to pin Remus down on the lawn and mouth hotly at a spot on his neck until they're both panting and half-hard, and Sirius swears breathlessly when he looks up to see James, in the distance, coming back out into the sunlight with a tray of food. They roll off one another, laughing, and James must get the measure of things when he reaches them because he throws Remus a rakish wink and a _"don't let me stop you, boys,"_ but - thankfully - the moment's passed, and Remus helps himself to a sandwich and another Pimm's and tries not to think about the throbbing heat between his legs.

It's a late dinner that Sirius takes his time preparing, and Remus helps for a bit until Sirius snaps at him that he's in the way and shoos him out of the kitchen. He wanders back into the snug instead, where he finds James working his way through a bottle of Old Pulteney and leafing absently through a book on the Arts & Crafts movement. He looks up when Remus walks in, and pats the seat beside him.

"He doesn't do this, you know," James says without preamble, putting his book aside and leaning back against the sofa, looking across at Remus with something that feels like paternal reproach.

"What?" Remus chuckles. "Sleep with the servants?"

James stares him down.

"Come on," he reasons kindly after a moment. His voice is just a little slurred. "You know it's not like that. But even if it were, he really doesn't do that. It's just you."

"Wow," Remus deadpans. "I'm honoured. Maybe he'll make me his personal valet."

"No, I mean it really is just you," James says, smiling benignly as if Remus is an idiot for not getting this. Maybe he is. "And I definitely shouldn't be telling you that, but he's been soft on you for years, old chap."

It comes as less of a surprise than it perhaps should. It's obviously nothing new, this thing between them; it's just a culmination of whatever they've both been working at for the past eight summers, and from the way Sirius was with him last night, and the way he kissed him when they woke this morning, and the way he watches Remus when he thinks Remus isn't looking, this _thing_ between them - this weird, intangible _thing_ \- might just have more weight than Remus has ever let himself imagine. And it sounds like James knows that, too.

He clears his throat.

"So... why _are_ you telling me this?"

"Oh, Remus," James sighs, and his eyes definitely aren't quite focused as he reaches for the bottle of whisky to pour himself another glass. "I love little Sirius. I do, I love him."

"Ok..."

"And I really, really want him to be happy. Little Sirius."

Remus frowns at him. James is clearly several drinks ahead of the rest of them, and nothing about Sirius is particularly "little" but the fondness is evident, and Remus gets the sense that James won't remember this conversation too clearly in the morning.

"You would make him happy."

James raises his drink in a toast and then, realising that Remus doesn't have a drink, clinks his glass awkwardly against Remus's empty hand before taking a great swig of the amber liquid and going back to his book. And Remus doesn't really know what to make of any of that.

They do fuck, that night. Remus tugs a tipsy Sirius up from a Chesterfield in the parlour and they bid their goodnights to the others, and Sirius produces a condom from somewhere and then they're both on Sirius's bed, Sirius laying back against the pillows as Remus straddles him and reaches back to take Sirius in his hand. He guides himself down onto him, chest heaving, his head falling back in relief when he bottoms out; the pain is exquisite. Sirius's thumbs are digging into his thighs, both of them panting together as they give Remus a moment to adjust, and then he's rocking forward gently to start, then faster, and then Sirius is gripping his hips and hammering up into him as the carved oak headboard knocks obscenely against the tapestried wall. Remus braces himself with his hands against the wood, eyes screwed tight against the onslaught from Sirius and it's just bloody _perfect_. Until it isn't, because then that weird part of Remus starts crawling out from the hollows inside him, some strange, mythical creature asking for something different, something more, and Remus can't stop himself.

"Wait, wait," he pants, opening his eyes, and Sirius looks confused.

"Alright?"

Remus shakes his head, and Sirius looks stricken for a moment but then Remus is touching his chest reassuringly, pulling himself off him with a wince, and settling beside Sirius on the mattress. He folds himself onto his knees, head on the sheets, and looks up at Sirius pleadingly.

"Like this," he whispers, his chest still heaving with exertion. "Please."

Sirius hesitates, breathing heavily, as he takes in Remus's new position. He seems to get it, then, because a new fire ignites in his eyes and he nods, moving round behind Remus to pull his hips up.

"This?"

_Yes_ , thinks Remus, his mind calming, that creature inside him satisfied for now. _This_.

Sirius lines himself up and pushes home in one fast, smooth snap of his hips, and Remus groans, reaching back to take Sirius's right hand and guiding it from where it sits at his own hip to grasp at his hair, telling Sirius wordlessly what he wants. He feels Sirius get it as fingers curl firmly into the strands, pushing Remus's head forcibly down into the mattress, and then he's pounding into him mercilessly, and Remus is, quite simply, in heaven. He feels Sirius's hips bruising him, the sharp-sweet pain where he stretches around him utter perfection, and when he opens his eyes and glances down he sees his own hard length bouncing urgently against his stomach, pearlescent drops already squeezing from his slit and falling lewdly to stain the counterpane below.

Catching him looking, Sirius tightens his hold in Remus's hair and Remus moans loudly when he shoves his face roughly back down into the mattress.

_"Yeah,"_ he sobs, Sirius's thrusts forcing uneven breaths from him as he's pushed up the bed. His knees hurt. _"Please."_

He hears a murmured _"fuck"_ behind him, and then Sirius is quickening his pace, the hand in Remus's hair giving no quarter, and Remus can't catch his breath, can't move, can't _think_ when he feels himself coming, untouched, streaking across his chest and over the sheets below. Sirius groans, and then he's pulling out urgently, roughly pushing Remus over onto his back and grasping his hair again as he tugs the condom off himself. He holds himself over Remus and gives himself one, two strokes, and Remus opens his mouth and closes his eyes and waits. It's divinity itself; Sirius gasps as he paints Remus's face, hot and lewd and never-ending. Remus feels him push the head of himself against Remus's cheek, smearing through the mess there, and then the fingers in his hair are loosening their grip, a hand running calmingly over his curls, and Sirius's breathless voice.

"Fucking hell, Remus."

It's not quite the sonnets, but the awe is inescapable. Remus blinks his eyes open, and Sirius is there gazing down at him, and it's pure instinct to prop himself up on his elbows and wait for the deep, sweet kiss he knows is coming.

"You're incredible," Sirius whispers against his lips, and Remus laughs.

"I'm perverted."

"That's what I..." Sirius smiles, then falters. He kisses Remus again. "That's what I like about you."

They end up in the shower together like the night before, but this time they're both too exhausted to do much more than lazily kiss under the spray before they fall back out into the hall and along to Sirius's room. It's hot enough tonight that Sirius cracks a window, and a welcome breeze cools Remus's damp skin as they lay side by side under the sheets.

"Don't leave."

Sirius's voice breaks the silence, and if Remus weren't already half asleep he might hear something in his tone, and turn to find him staring at him through the darkness, chewing on his bottom lip and worrying at a loose thread of cotton on his pillowcase.

"I'm not," he murmurs instead, not opening his eyes. "I'll sleep here."

"That's not really what I meant."

Remus does open his eyes then. He turns his head on the pillow, and frowns.

"What?"

Sirius looks nervous. Sirius never looks nervous, especially when he's asking something of someone because Sirius has that innate air about him that tells all in his orbit that what he's asking isn't really a request, and they don't really have a choice. If Sirius wants it then Sirius gets it, and that's just how things are; that's why Remus is here in the first place - although if he's being honest with himself, Remus isn't entirely sure how true that is anymore. He's not really doing any of this because Sirius _asked_ him to, and in theory if Sirius were someone less entitled, less demanding, less sure that whatever he wanted would always be at his beck and call then Remus is pretty sure he'd be here anyway; he'd choose to be here. Of course, then Sirius wouldn't be _Sirius_ , so maybe Remus would've left by now. But then, that's sort of the point.

"You know this can't work."

"It could," Sirius says quietly. "Perhaps."

Remus smiles, and quirks an eyebrow at him.

"How, in your infinite wisdom, could you ever think this could work?"

"Look," Sirius starts, his voice clearer now. "I know that I'm not exactly what you're looking for. I know I'm an insufferable prat and I know that I'm a part of this odious world that you're much too good for. Of course I know that. But, this-" he gestures abstractly between them, his eyes pleading with Remus. "This could be a real thing, couldn’t it? It feels like it could.”

Remus blinks at him. God, he feels this.

"It could," he sighs after a long moment, closing his eyes and running a tired hand over his face.

It _is_ a real thing. It's always been a real thing. This electricity between them, the way they spark off one another and ignite the air and _hate_ each other but can't escape this magnetism, this frenzy; it feels like a kind of fate, and it's maddening and inconvenient and ridiculous but it's also safe, and happy, and Remus is starting to see just how they fit together like a puzzle that they've both been working at since that first summer eight years ago. They work, the two of them. But none of that means that _this_ will work; Sirius is still Sirius, and Remus is still Remus, and they live in different worlds. Different worlds with different rules and different expectations and Remus isn't indulgent enough to think for a second that he'd be allowed to step foot in Sirius's world outside the confines of this one clandestine weekend.

But, he supposes, there will be other weekends. There'll be other parties, other summers, other afternoons spent licking chocolate and strawberries from the corner of Sirius's mouth on lawns under raging suns. It's a nice thought, anyway.

"Remus?"

"Let's see, Sirius," Remus says, turning on his side to face him and taking Sirius's hand under the sheets as he closes his eyes. "Let's just see."

***

They wake early, with what Remus reads as a shared understanding of what's happened and what might happen next; that is to say, they don't know, but that can be a good thing, and when Sirius takes Remus's phone from him before they head downstairs and taps in his number, Remus smiles and allows himself to be pulled into Sirius's arms. They stay like that for a long moment, quiet in the centre of the tapestry rug, and then James is calling down the hallway that Pete's burnt the bacon and he needs Sirius's help to box his ears for it.

Breakfast passes in a haze of coffees and newspapers and Sirius's thigh pressed against Remus's on the bench at the scrubbed kitchen table, and then they're packing up James's car and waving to the groundskeeper as the four of them pass through the towering gates at the north end of the estate. Remus glances behind out of the rear windscreen, something wistful pulling at him as he picks out what he thinks is the window to Sirius's room in the east wing, but then a hand takes his on the back seat and squeezes his fingers.

"We'll come back," Sirius whispers, smiling at him softly, before the moment is broken by James shrieking at Pete in the front seat and batting his hands away from the stereo controls like an agitated goose.

"Leave it the fuck alone, Pete!” cries James, righting the car on the narrow country road when it threatens to veer off into a hedgerow. "We are not listening to fucking Abba."

"I mean, if nothing else," Sirius continues serenely. "We need to give these two space to nurture what's clearly a budding romance."

Remus throws his head back and cackles, only laughing harder when Pete cranes his head round and asks Remus to switch places with him so he doesn't have to sit next to _"this arsehole"_ all the way back to London. Remus fancies it's said fondly though, and by the time they get back to the city the four of them are laughing and joking and bickering like old friends, which, in a strange way, Remus realises they sort of are.

They drop Pete off near Waterloo, because he wants to catch a train out to see Mary before they have to go back to work tomorrow, and Remus asks James to pull up on a random street near St. Paul's, insisting it's a short walk to his flat from here which it is, sort of, but more to the point he's really not ready to let Sirius - or James, for that matter - see where he actually lives.

Sirius slides out of the car after Remus whilst James, bless his heart, pretends to busy himself on his phone as the car engines idles.

"Well," says Remus, hitching his rucksack onto his back. "Erm... thanks."

Sirius blinks at him.

"For?"

"I dunno," Remus shrugs. "Just thanks."

"For breakfast? For the weekend away? For dinner last night? For the really good, really perverted sex?"

Remus is laughing when Sirius pulls him into his arms, and something in the back of his mind tells him they probably shouldn't be doing this here but then, he reasons, what's life without a little risk? And Sirius is certainly a risk.

"Yeah," he murmurs against Sirius's lips. "All of that."

"Listen, I don't think I can get out of Paris. But there's a function at the end of the month, and I'll be back by then. It's a gala thing, at Somerset House. McGonagall's is doing the catering, and I know you're not on the roster yet, but I thought perhaps-”

"You checked?"

Sirius doesn't even have the decency to look chastised.

"Yes, obviously I checked," he says hurriedly, and Remus decides to put him out of his misery.

"I'll be there," he smiles, and he can't deny that the thought of sneaking around with Sirius in London thrills him.

They risk a kiss goodbye, and then Sirius is climbing back into James's car and disappearing off down the street, and Remus trudges the half hour back to his flat feeling suddenly cold and achingly bereft of something, and there's a traitorous lump in his throat as he feels the weekend begin to slip out of his grasp, seeping away in a blur of sun and champagne and hot, feverish kisses. He feels like he's losing it all already, the memories tripping over one another in a haze; one weekend wasn't enough, not _nearly_ enough, and the thought that it may have been all that will ever be allowed to him is devastating. But then his phone buzzes with a message, and it's Sirius:

_It's only a few weeks. I'll be thinking of you x_

Remus grins to himself, and Sirius and the house and the whole bloody weekend come rushing back to him in glorious technicolour. Still smiling, he stops to sit on a bench bathed in a solitary patch of warm midday sunlight that's squeezing itself between the concrete tower blocks around him, and taps out a reply.

_I'll bring the champagne x_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed your weekend in the countryside with the boys. I couldn't leave it there, however, so I've got a multi-chapter sequel all written and just about ready to post, and that'll be coming probably next weekend - subscribe to updates to get a notification when it's up!
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as ever, greatly appreciated x


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